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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24453100">Madrid 2019</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenecho/pseuds/Schattenecho'>Schattenecho</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A history of love [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Escape, M/M, Past heist, Please Don't Hate Me, Possible Afterlive, Possible Character Death, Swearing, english is not my first language</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:53:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,153</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24453100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenecho/pseuds/Schattenecho</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Why?<br/>Why does destiny hate the Dalís?<br/>Everything was working more or less well and then everything went to chaos again. This time it's not Palermo's fault. But for a man, who just wants to die, is in the middle of crossfire just the right place.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A history of love [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Madrid 2019</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Madrid, Spain</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Three days after hour X</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>„Palermo! Status? “, even though the radio the strain and the extreme concentration of the professor was clearly recognisable.</p><p>“On the run!”, Palermo yelled back. He didn’t have time for a polite, elaborate answer. He had to survive the next couple of minutes without getting shot by the police.</p><p> </p><p>They had come through the windows and caught them completely off guard. He had heard Tokyo screaming, just seconds before the smoke grenades smashed the glass. The hostages hadn’t been prepared, none of them had had vests or fake weapons. They couldn’t put their lives on risk, so Lisbon had decided to send them as distraction against the SWAT-Team to buy them some crucial time. The gold had already been outside, swept outside through the pipes of the canalisation.</p><p>It was just the Dalís who had to escape.</p><p>And there was the problem.</p><p>The machine gun hadn’t been loaded, the sandbags hadn’t been stacked. They had to retreat behind their second line of defence. Apparently, Suarez wanted to bring them down definitely. He sent his men merciless against the curtain fire. He had been successful.</p><p>They had lost ground foot by foot, when Palermo had made the difficult decision to stay behind with Helsinki and cover their retreat.</p><p>They had given everything (seriously, one second of seeing them had been enough to end all prejudices about gay men in the military), until Tokyo’s call had released them. Helsinki had grabbed Palermo at the arm and dragged him out of the fire.</p><p>The had run through the previously for their escape marked floors.</p><p>But Suarez had been faster than they had calculated. The hostile gun fire behind them and a too long way to go forced them into hiding behind the corner.</p><p> </p><p>Palermo leaned against the wall and tried to bring order into his thoughts. The black Kevlar laid heavy on his chest, making breathing increasingly difficult. But he was more than lucky to have it. A bullet already stuck in it.</p><p>With a quick move he took the magazine out of his G36-rifle and checked the ammunition. If they proceed as they did until now, they didn’t have a chance. The SWAT-team was quicker and it’s was armoured protection better, besides Helsinki and he ran out of ammunition. The had to change their strategy if they want so survive this battle.</p><p>“Helsinki?”, Palermo was still gasping, but his voice was strangely calm and composed.</p><p>“What’s the matter?”</p><p>“We don’t come out of here, if we don’t come up with something.”</p><p>“What do you want to do? Surrender?”</p><p>“No, at this point that would be suicide.”, he turned toward Helsinki: “I’ve promised you, that you will get out of here alive. That I will do everything I can to save you. And I don’t want to be rumoured to break my promises.”, he swallowed dryly and closed his eyes: “I was quite a dick until now, wasn’t I?”</p><p>“Palermo, what should this mean? What are you up to?”, Helsinki asked alarmed. He had a precise radar for other peoples emotions and he knew that Palermo was about to do something terrible.</p><p>“Nothing.”, the Argentinian looked at him again and smiled.</p><p>It wasn’t the sarcastic or smug smile he usually put on, when he wore his mask. This one was honest and real.</p><p>“Just promise me one thing.”, Palermo pulled the strap of his rifle from his shoulder: “On three you just run. You don’t care about me, you just run to safety as fast as you can. Are you promising me this?”</p><p>“I will not leave you alone here.”</p><p>“You damn, Serbian motherfucker.”</p><p>Before they could continue their argument, curtain fire of the police started again, like a brutal thunderstorm made out of steel and fire. Ricochets flew around, stuck in the floor and the walls. A pretty striking reminder of the time, that they both didn’t have.</p><p>“Okay, on three. One.”, Palermo pulled a little pen-like object out of his jumpsuit: “Two”, he got up to his feet: “Three.”</p><p>Helsinki could react fast enough, when Palermo jumped directly into the ballistic curve with nothing more than the pen-like thing.</p><p>He stood straight and proud, time stretched, as the red laser beams of the SWAT-team ascended out of the smoke of the grenades.</p><p> </p><p>“Una mattina,”, he muttered quietly to himself: “mi son svegliato.”</p><p>Andrés had died in the same way. Straight and proud, while he had protected his friends.</p><p>“Oh, bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao.”</p><p>He would follow him.</p><p>“Una mattina, mi son svegliato.”</p><p>All this misery, that his life had been for years, it would come to an end. Finally.</p><p>“E ho trovato I’invasor.”</p><p>He didn’t expect much from death.</p><p>“O partigano, portami via.”              </p><p>He didn’t believe in the afterworld, the immortal soul or any other thing children get taught about in Sunday school.</p><p>“O bella, ciao! Bella ciao! Bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!”</p><p>He actually never thought about death.</p><p>“O partigiano, portami via.”</p><p>About dying, of course, he thought about it many, many times, in the darkest moments of his life, when only his cowardice stopped him from putting a bullet in his head.</p><p>“Ché mi sento di morir.”</p><p>Yes, he was about to die. He didn’t care about it anymore.</p><p>A bullet hit the floor just one meter ahead of him. Martín closed his eyes and pressed the button. Helsinki wanted to drag him away, before bullets could be strayed by gunfire, as he heard the characteristic “click” of an automatic releaser. His instincts took over, he threw himself on the ground and buried his head in his arms.</p><p> </p><p>A big explosion isn’t a thing you experience. You just remember it afterwards. You remember heat and pressure, cannonade and crack, fire and dust.  And then you wake up, and the whole world change in the matter of split-seconds.</p><p> </p><p>Helsinki didn’t hear anything else than a high-frequency bleeping sound. His sight blurred randomly in and out, his arms and legs felt like they were made out of gas, absurdly light and wobbly. He leaned on his arm to get up. The previously red sleeve was completely covered with dust, so he couldn’t see the original red under all the grey.</p><p>He had to assert that walking wasn’t that easy with limbs made out of gas, but he didn’t intend to be stopped by this mildly inconvenience.        </p><p>Thick clouds of dust were hanging in the air and made his vision even worse, but Helsinki was pretty sure that the corridor, that had been ten meters long just a second ago, was cut in half by a giant pile of debris.<br/>
The neon light flickered and contributed to the apocalyptic atmosphere.</p><p>Palermo had blown up the entire floor.</p><p>While running through it, Helsinki hadn’t seen any payloads, they probably were hidden in the walls and the ceiling. Palermo was exceptionally gifted engineer, many of the machines they had used during the heist, were designed and constructed by him. Just as the complex explosive charges they used to secure the bank and blow up the vault’s inner door. Blowing up a tunnel made out of concrete and steel was a pretty easy task.</p><p>Apparently, either the Professor or Palermo or both had foreseen this scenario and had taken provisions. It would take hours until the police’s experts would remove the giant barrier.</p><p>Helsinki spat out some blood, he had bitten himself in the tongue, and wiped the dust from his eyes. His sight cleared.</p><p>And what he saw, blew away his lethargy.</p><p> </p><p>Palermo lied, the upper body leaned against the wall, the legs stretched. His head hung down, like it was snapped off.</p><p>Helsinki had experienced the peripheric impacts of the explosion, covered by the corner, but Palermo had stood directly in it’s way. The blast threw him against the wall, the dust covered him like a thick patina, he looked like a plaster cast of himself. Helsinki reacted quick and instantly, when he kneels next to the injured one.</p><p>And injured he was.</p><p>His left eye wasn’t visible anymore under a layer of blood and dust. Helsinki couldn’t even say, if the eye was still there. But this wasn’t even the worst part. One of the steel beams that were worked into the construction of the tunnel had hit his right leg and caused a deep, heavily bleeding wound. The fabric of the jumpsuit was ripped apart and the skin under it was smeared with blood.       </p><p>Helsinki felt fear but no panic. In war he had seen such things, his own body marked countless with scars. And yes, Palermo was badly injured and yes, he could die, but panic wasn’t the thing he needed right now.</p><p>He needed a pressure bandage and someone to stitch him up. And a way out of here, before he could bleed out. Helsinki ripped his own sleeve from his clothing, wrapped it around Palermo’s leg and fastened it as tight as possible with a knot.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve kept my promise.”, Helsinki looked up from his work. This crazy lunatic was bleeding his life out, had maybe only one eye left and still had the audacity to smile.</p><p>The smile looked proud and satisfied.</p><p>“Don’t talk.”, Helsinki warned: “The blast hit you pretty bad.”</p><p>“Funny. I don’t feel anything.”</p><p>“That’s the lose of blood. Try to breath calmly and don’t move. I will get you out of here.”</p><p>“No.”, Palermo tried to push him away, but didn’t even manage to raise his hand: “Go. The police will be here soon.”</p><p>“What? I won’t leave you here.”</p><p>“You have to. I won’t survive this. The others are waiting for you. You still have a chance. I bought you all some time.”, he finally managed to raise his hand and clawed his stone-cold fingers into Helsinki’s collar: “Please. You will survive this. I’ve promised. Don’t let me die as a liar.”</p><p>“You’re right. I don’t let you die.”</p><p>“Please.”, Palermo was trembling from exhaustion as lifted his head to look at Helsinki’s face. Every little bit of life in left in him seemed to accumulate in his one visible eye. The watery blue of his eyes burned like desperate fire: “Please, go.”</p><p>His eyes broke, the pupils danced around unsteadily and focused on random things:</p><p>“I am…am…I am so cold. Why does everything go dark? Helsinki…I…I can’t see anything. It’s so dark. I am scared. Why am I scared?”, tears ran down his face, his hands fell down on his lap. Helsinki gently cupped his cheek he didn’t care about the spots of blood that appeared on his palms:</p><p>“Listen to me. You don’t have to be scared. I won’t lose you, Martín Berrotte. We both get out of here. I’ve promised you, remember?”</p><p> </p><p>Martín didn’t hear him anymore Everything around him was dark and numb. He was cold, so, so cold. His hand and feet, his limbs, his chest, his head everything turned as cold as ice. He could downright hear the ice eating its way through his blood directly to his heart.</p><p>Just one last thought reached his mind and escaped his lips:</p><p>“I’ve kept my promise.”, he smiled again: “I missed you… Andrés.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
It was dark, but not in a bad or dismal way, but actually pretty comfortable. Warm, somehow cuddly.</p><p>Wasn’t he dead?</p><p>Yes, he was. He had to be.</p><p>Maybe being dead just felt like that. How should he know? Why was he even thinking about it? Could one think when one was dead? After all he didn’t have a brain anymore, that could think. But maybe, one just didn’t need a head or a brain to think.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>E se io muoio da partigiano,o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao! </em>
</p><p><em>E se io muoio da partigiano, tu mi devi seppellir.</em><br/>
<br/>
What was that? A memory? Why not? He heard Andrés singing this song more than on more than one occasion and he always had had a good memory for melodies and lyrics. Sergio had told him, that his brother had gotten it from him and he had learned it from his grandfather, who had fought fascism singing this song. He had nearly died more than once. Nearly died, fitting irony.</p><p>Actually very fitting, that he thought of this particular song. It was about death, that dying for a higher cause was worth it. It made him proud that he succeeded at least at this point. Maybe it wasn’t a fight against fascism, but nonetheless it had been for the greater good. Maybe he had managed to compensate his guilt at least a bit. Because guilt was the one thing he had more of than he could bear.   <br/>
<br/>
<em>E seppellire lassù in montagna,o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!</em></p><p><em>E seppellire lassù in montagna, sotto l’ombra di un bel fior.</em><em><br/>
</em><br/>
He wondered, where he would be buried. Had anyone taken his body with him? The police probably had retrieved the corpse, the secret service had taken pictures of it to have a prove, that he was definitely dead. Maybe a picture of him existed, similar to the dead Che Guevara. An idea that seem quite appealing to his argentinian soul.</p><p>He would have liked it to be buried in Palermo. There was this beautiful, decaying orange grove near to the oldest church of Sicily, San Giovanni dei Lebbrosi. He had always loved it to sit and draw under the ambrosial trees during the long hot summers. His sketchbook was filled with drawn leaves and fruits, with landscapes, with old ruins and white ships.</p><p>He would never see die groves of Sicily again. As well as Argentina’s endless pampas or the churches of Florence. Never hear music again, never dance again. Not a single cup of mate-tea anymore. He wouldn’t see anything ever again.     </p><p><br/>
<em>Tutte le genti che passeranno,o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!</em>
</p><p><em>Tutte le genti che passeranno, Mi diranno «Che bel fior!»</em><em><br/>
</em><br/>
There would be no flowers on his grave. Nobody would visit it. He wouldn’t even have one. Sergio would be rather upset about his death. Helsinki probably too. Mirko Dragic, that was his real name. But for Martín he always would be Helsinki, the big, Serbian teddy-bear. He had hurt him so much and he hated himself for it.</p><p>He didn’t even know why he had behaved like this.</p><p>Probably it had been his own fear of letting somebody get that close to him. Every single time he had let this happen it brought him nothing but pain. He had loved Andrés for years and decades, a love so keen and hopeless, that it destroyed him, when Andrés had left him forever. It had smashed him into a thousand pieces and the creature, that crawled out of the ashes was an embittered monster. A beast of anger and grief, that didn’t grant anybody happiness or joy. That hated everybody, who wasn’t eaten away by pain and self-hate.</p><p>He wanted to weep. But he was dead. A dead man couldn’t weep anymore.<br/>
<br/>
<em>«È questo il fiore del partigiano»,o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!«</em></p><p><em>È questo il fiore del partigiano, morto per la libertà!» </em><br/>
<br/>
Who was he trying to fool with these stupid thoughts? He hadn’t died for freedom. Not for great ideas, not for love. It had been pure selfishness. The egoism of a man, who just wanted to die, but was to much of a coward to do it by himself. He was pathetic. Even in death despicable.</p><p>His attempts to give his deeds a legitimation were even more pathetic.</p><p>He should be here in the darkness forever. The only place where he could hurt anybody. This wasn’t neither heaven nor hell. It was the perfect prison for an obnoxious creature like him.</p><p> </p><p>A scratch came into his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>Wait, what? A scratch? Where did a noise come from, if he didn’t have ears anymore? And where did the pressure on his eyes come from? Why did he have eyes?</p><p>His whole world started to rotate, as suddenly hundred of impressions reached his consciousness. The smell of a frequently washed bedspread and fresh air. A soft surface he was laying on. A dull feeling in his entire body. A heavy, warm thing covering him. A steady “ping” in the background. A little tickle in his nostrils.</p><p>Martín wiped his face with a weak, agitated, uncontrolled movement. He felt his cool fingers on his jaw and sensed a rough fabric.</p><p>What was that? Maybe the reason why he couldn’t see anything?</p><p>He continued fumbling for the fabric and found it covering his eyes. He wore a blindfold.</p><p>When he tried to lift it, his trembling hands slipped off without any impact and fell down on his chest.</p><p>Well, at the moment he was blind. Why?     <br/>
 <br/>
A diffuse memory of an enormous pressure and pain in his face dawned on him. He remembered a wave of heat and massive blow on his back. Had there been an explosion?</p><p>A memory of a bearded face, that looking at him pleading and saying something unintelligible. Helsinki.</p><p>He remembered his fear in the dark and the cold in his bones.</p><p>And then he died, right?</p><p>Apparently not.</p><p> </p><p>Martín carefully felt for his chest. Delicate fabric, not the jumpsuit anymore, a thick soft layer. A blanket.</p><p>Had the police found and saved him? If so, then soon someone would show up to interrogate and arrest him. Probably, they would do same to him as they did to Rio. The Professor kick-started the biggest scandal in the history of Spain when he made the torture public, but if the authorities cottoned on to his leading role in the heist, they would make a friendly exception for him. Not Sierra, that would be too bold. But any other torturer would do the job as well.</p><p>He didn’t care.</p><p>He wouldn’t say a word. They should shoot him in the head now. It would save time.      </p><p> </p><p>“Palermo? are you awake?”</p><p>He turned to the voice. It sounded deep with a thick Serbian accent. And he was pretty sure that this voice didn’t belong to the police.</p><p>“Hel…”, his tongue spluttered and the other syllables didn’t make out of his mind.</p><p>Martín heard heavy steps approaching him and the sound of a chair, that was dragged to his bed. He had to focus all his concentration to get one sentence together:</p><p>“Where… where am I?”</p><p>He still sounded completely drunk, but better than before.</p><p>“Palermo.”, the voice sounded overwhelmed with joy: “Palermo! You crazy, little man!”</p><p>“Can’t…see.”, Martín tried to locate Helsinki only via hearing, but his perception was still malfunctioning. He adjusted his head on the pillow a bit, but still could say where Helsinki stood.</p><p>“You overslept the biggest part of the action. Wait, I remove the bandage first.”</p><p>A strong hand lifted his head a bit and slowly removed the pressure from his eyes. His sight got brighter, but the entire left half remained dark.</p><p>The pressure disappeared completely and he instantly started to blink. Everything seemed a bit blurry, colourful spots crossed his vision, but he was finally able to see his surroundings.</p><p> </p><p>The room wasn’t that big, its ceiling was carried by a ribbed vault. A window was open, a fresh breeze cooled the room to a comfortable degree. He saw a record player, with a record spinning in silence. The “Ping” he had heard before belonged to a machine that showed his body’s data. This was the right side of his sight. The left was empty.</p><p>Martín could already guess what happened.</p><p>Helsinki bended over the bed and let her hand wander from side to side:</p><p>“Do you see this?”</p><p>“Yes… other side is… is dark.”</p><p>“The Professor was right. This could be quiet a… a shock.”, Helsinki warned</p><p>“A shock?”</p><p>“After the explosion I barely manage to carry you out of the bank and the Professor saved your leg. Your eye… wasn’t that lucky.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“There was a metal splinter in your eyeball. The Professor got it out, but he… He’s said, that your lentil and retina are damaged irreparably.”</p><p>“I am blind.”</p><p>“Maybe not completely and it could get better over time.”</p><p>“I… I am blind.”</p><p>“You still have one eye. The vest and the boots saved you from the worst. You are able to walk and move properly. You are still alive.”    <br/>
Helsinki was right. He couldn’t remember the explosion and the direct aftermath properly, but he was sure, that dying had been more than possible. He had been extremely lucky. He lived, he could breathe and see by himself, he was free. He had had a bloody angel protecting him.</p><p>“What happened?”, Martín asked.</p><p>“After you passed out, I thought for a moment that you stopped breathing. But you were still alive and I hurried to bring you to safety. We barely did it.”</p><p>“Where are we? Sicily?”</p><p>“Close. He are back at the monastery. We couldn’t transport you any further.”</p><p>“Oh. That explains the ceiling.”</p><p> </p><p>He closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows. Speaking exhausted him more, than he expected, but he forced himself so stay awake and open his eyes again. When he tried to get up, Helsinki pushed him back gently:</p><p>“Better stay in bed. Besides, your leg can’t support your weight yet. I will stay here with you, if you like.”</p><p>“Let me get up. I can do this.”   <br/>
“Then you get a wheelchair.”</p><p>“I can stand. Give me a stick and I pilgrimage to fucking Santiago de Compostela.”, not very convincing coming from a man, who was pale like a ghost and only spoke with his lips trembling. He made attempts to get up again and Helsinki didn’t want to hurt him, by forcing him back down:</p><p>“You are filled up with morphine.”</p><p>“Explains why I am so high.”, Martín grimaced with struggle, but he still managed to shove his blankets away. He looked down at himself to state his changed clothing. He wore a white shirt and his pyjama pants instead of the blood-soaked jumpsuit. Helsinki watched him with worry, but didn’t intervene, when he started to twitch at the diodes in his arm and the “Ping” stopped.</p><p>Only when he tried to remove the needle in his arm, that connected him to his intravenous drip, Helsinki grabbed his wrist:</p><p>“It stays. The Professor has been clear about that.”</p><p>“So, I should walk around with drip, like a nursing case?”</p><p>“Exactly. You can lean on it and don’t need a cane anymore.”</p><p>Martín glared at him, but Helsinki meant every word seriously. Or he just wanted to get him back into the bed. But he didn’t go this far, just to give up because of this mild inconvenience:</p><p>“Well, where is the IV pole?”</p><p>“Do you really want to do this on your own?”</p><p>“Yes, I’ve said so.”, Martín was shaking like a leaf but he still was able to get up a bit more. The hollow pain in his body got stronger and only gave him glimpses of the pain he would face without the morphine. Only his stubbornness let him to proceed.</p><p>“I support you.”, Helsinki didn’t wait for permission or any answer, but put Martin’s arm around his shoulders: “You carry nothing more than your morphine.”</p><p>Martín had wanted to protest but he had to admit, that he simply wasn’t able to stand a second without Helsinki.</p><p>“And now what? Are you going to bed now?”, the Serbian didn’t seem bothered by the additional weight of another person.</p><p>“Never.”, Martín managed to grin, but due to his paleness, the sunken cheeks and the deep shadows around his eyes he looked pretty similar to a skull:</p><p>“Where are the others?”</p><p>“Eating in the garden. You awoke in time for dinner.”</p><p>“Well, some fresh air is never a bad idea. Let’s go to dinner.”   </p><p>  <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>It was a warm late summer day; a breeze drove the damp heat off. The monastery was located at a steep hill with a breath-taking view over the river Arno. The couple of monks, who lived there didn’t ask questions about their guest. They were pretty happy with the change and the help they brought.</p><p>The heart-warmingly had taken care of Cincinnati. Denver and Stockholm found him playing hide and seek with the abbot. The monks had no problems with the unmarried couples under their roof, nevermind their sexual orientation.</p><p>The Professor, Bogota and Marseille had repaired the majority of the old leaky pipes. Rio had installed a broadband connection delighting the youngest of the monks, a football loving Brazilian. Manila enjoyed flirting with the young man and making him extremely nervous.</p><p> </p><p>The last days had been stormy and rainy, but this morning the clouds had ripped apart and the sun had come through. They could finally sit in the garden again.</p><p> </p><p>Tokyo sat on a turned chair, the arms laying on its back and chuckled.</p><p>Cincinnati was still a toddler, but already clever enough to crawl under the table and play with the shoelaces until he occasionally created unsolvable knots. This time it hit the Professor, as he had wanted to get up to get a book for Marseille.</p><p>He hadn’t fallen on the nose, but his little tap dance was a pure delight to watch. Even Raquel couldn’t hold back a laugh, but still decided to save her love. The Professor sat on his place again and was pretty busy looking embarrassed.  <br/>
“Professor you should start working for the circus.”, Bogota light his cigarettes grinning: “You would be a great clown.”</p><p>Professor looked, like he wanted to disappear into thin are right here on the spot. Stockholm took he son on her lap to prevent further damage, but Denver’s proud smile made every attempt of disciplining meaningless.</p><p>“Come on, don’t behave like it’s the end of the world.”, Raquel threw a smile at her love.</p><p>“I don’t act like that.”, the Professor adjusted his glasses.  </p><p> </p><p>“A wonder has happened. The dead are walking again.”, Marseille leaned back and took a sip from his beer. Tokyo followed his gaze and lifted her eyebrows in surprise.</p><p>Half an hour ago the pager had started bleeping and Helsinki had gotten up to go see what was happening.</p><p>Nobody could have said that he would come back with Palermo. But he had done exactly that. Helsinki carried the additional weight without any effort.</p><p>Palermo really looked like he had just risen from the grave. Pale as a ghost, the skin unnatural grey and cold sweat covering his face. His fingers were closed around a small, white plastic box, that was connected with a needle in his arm. He walked stumbling and without support he would fell to the ground instantly.</p><p>But the scariest thing was his eye. It had had two weeks to heal, but apparently this was far worse than a few shards of glass. From his cheekbone ran three half healed fissures directly to his eye. Palermo’s eyes were of a watery, cold blue, but now the cornea was so scared that it looked like somebody had stuffed a thunderstorm into it.</p><p>The last time Tokyo saw him, his face had been completely covered in blood, so this was probably the best it would get.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t know what exactly had happened. The Professor just had told them, that Palermo was alive.</p><p>They fled to Italy in a couple of different ships and reunited not until they all reached the monastery. She had asked Helsinki what happened and he had told her, that Palermo barely survived his hourlong surgery. His heart had stopped more than once during the procedure and only the frozen blood bottles had saved him.</p><p>And despite of all of that he was limping towards the table through the gras on which he lost a football match against Tokyo just three weeks ago.</p><p>They didn’t like each other very much.</p><p>She had removed the glass from his eyes, he had led the operation to get her out of the panic room. But those really had been the only signs friendship. On multiple occasions they raised their weapons against each other and when he had admitted to set Gandía free she had been ready to rip out his throat.</p><p>Despite of their mutual antipathy, Tokyo had to admit that getting up after two weeks of coma and then doing something close to walking took real strength and commitment.</p><p> </p><p>Helsinki recognised the sudden silence.</p><p>“Why isn’t he in bed?”, the Professor broke the quiet.</p><p>“Nice to see you too, Sergio.”, Palermo made a smile, that looked like somebody was giving him electric shocks.</p><p>The Professor pinched his lips together at hearing his real name, but he decided to that it didn’t matter anymore:</p><p>“Martín, your leg doesn’t stand this. If the stitches burst, you probably won’t wake up anymore. Please go to bed.”</p><p>“It takes more time to get there than to get to the table. So let me sit down and I stop walking. Come on Helsinki, I don’t make it much longer, my head is swimming.</p><p>The Professor wanted to protest, but he felt Raquel’s hand on his shoulder gently pulling him back to the table. Martín was right. In the same nerve-racking way, he was always right.</p><p>The jolly chattering had fallen silent; everybody watched Helsinki and his company slowly circling the table heading to the only chair with rests. Stockholm gave her son to his father, stood up and pulled out the chair.</p><p>Helsinki nodded thankfully at her, when he put Palermo on his place.</p><p>Martín felt all glances focusing on him. His colleagues looked at him with surprise or worry or joy or all three of them. It wasn’t part of his nature to give up to this pressure. He didn’t lower his gaze, no, he starred back with his new half glance.                </p><p> </p><p>They were all there.</p><p> </p><p>Bogota sat next to Marseille and tried his best to concentrate on his cigarette and not to glare at him. Marseille did way better at it. Manila had crossed her arms und watched over the edges of her sunglasses. The two couples, Rio and Tokyo on one side and Stockholm and Denver seemed to had overcome their crisis. Even if he didn’t care much (no, he didn’t care at all) about happy couples and family, he was looking forward for nights without loud arguments on the floor.<br/>
Lisbon’s hand still lied on the Professor’s shoulder but Martín knew his body language well enough to assume, that he would not try again to send him to bed like a naughty child.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Behind the Professor there was am old staircase heading to the first floor of the monastery. Nairobi sat on the stairs in her red jumpsuit and the elaborately braided hair. She smiled in her typical warm and friendly way, that created small lines around her eyes.</p><p>Martín always liked her. She had everything he had not.</p><p>Joy and optimism, motivation and unlimited positivity. He had hurt her. Her death was his fault. Nearly everything that had gone wrong was his fault. His and the one of his fucking egoism. He would try everything to find forgiveness.  <br/>
Next to her, leaning lazily against the handrail, stood Andrés. He wore the elegant suit and the black coat he had worn the last time he had seen him. His hat was laying behind him on the handrail.</p><p>He looked exactly like on the day he lost him. No sign of his disease nor the bullets that had killed him. No blood, no shaking, no hidden pain. Just Andrés grinning, the arms casually crossed. He looked at him. When he noticed that Martín had noticed him, the grin turned into a delighted smile and he lifted the fingers on this arm for a little wink. Martín’s heart started beating faster. Andrés seemed delighted by this reaction, because his smile went brighter. But not tauntingly, like he was used to. It looked proud and warm.    <br/>
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</p><p>Martín shook his head and lowered his glance to the table. Apparently, he hadn’t just lost an eye and had a hole in his leg, but a pretty heavy concussion too. Probably he could thank the morphine for these illusions.</p><p> </p><p>If he ever should see these people again, he wouldn’t be alive anymore. Nairobi and Andrés were dead. And he was alive, right?</p><p>He didn’t die, right?</p><p>This was the real world, right?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Right?</em>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
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</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Madrid 2019 extended ending</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>DISCLAIMER<br/>The first chapter was written as a stand-alone story with an open end. This chapter answers the questions some commentators sent me. If you don’t want to know the exact end just don’t read this. All others: Have fun!</p><p> </p><p>Martín was paralysed. He stared at Andrés, who was still smiling at him. This had to be a dream, a hallucination. This just couldn’t be real. All his reason, everything in his mind told him, that Andrés and Nairobi were dead. But his eyes told him, that they were leaning and sitting on that stairway.<br/>He shook his head again, trying to clear his vision. This was just a fata morgana. He had lost a lot of blood, he just woke up from a week-long coma, this was a normal reaction of his body. He just had to wait a bit and everything would go back to normal. <br/>He lifted his glance, forcing himself to focus it on his living colleagues:<br/>“Helsinki, could you hand me a beer?”<br/>The Serbian didn’t react, instead he continued to grin over a stupid joke Denver had told him. Maybe he hadn’t heard him.<br/>“Helsinki.”, He tried again, louder and clearer now.<br/>But nobody reacted. Not Helsinki, not Stockholm, who sat next to him. Was his voice so weak? It didn’t sound that small to himself. His senses had to be more hit than expected. But he was not the person to be stopped by such small inconveniences.<br/>His hand was trembling and shaking, but he still managed to pull at Stockholm’s sleeve. She turned to him and he smiled somehow relieved:<br/>“So, thanks for the proof I’m not a ghost. Great. Could you hand me a beer?”<br/>And Stockholm didn’t react. Her glance just went through him, like he was just made out of thin air. It was odd before, but now Martín was completely confused and almost scared. What the hell was this? Was this a joke, designed by the gang to have a little fun with him. Maybe Sergio found, that it would cheer him up a bit. <br/>It didn’t.<br/>It definitely didn’t.<br/>It scared him. <br/>“Che, what are you doing? Should this be a joke? If so, stop it, it’s not funny.”<br/>But nobody answered. They all behaved like he wasn’t there. Lisbon asked for the salat, which was given to her by Tokyo, while the Sergio told the team about their escape routes. <br/>“Hey! I’m talking to you Boludos! Don’t ignore me! Helsinki, what the fuck is this!?”<br/>No answer. The Professor continued speaking to Helsinki:<br/>“And you still want to go alone?”<br/>“Yeah, I lost the two people closest to me. I think, the only thing I need is a fresh beginning.”<br/>Helsinki lost two people? Martín could remember, that the Serbian had a cousin or brother or something like that, he had lost in the first heist. He didn’t expect that this would still bother him. But who he was to judge about other people’s respond to lose?<br/>“So, you remember the telephone number of the transporter for south America?”<br/>“Sure.”<br/>Sergio took a long, long glance at Helsinki, before he said:<br/>“And you are completely sure, that it’s going to be Buenos Aires?”<br/>“What?”, Martín nearly jumped on the table, when he heard the sentence: “Sergio, hijo de puta, what the hell have you messed up? I thought the hide-outs were already assigned!?”<br/>“Yes, definitely. He would have wanted it. I have to bring him home.”<br/>“Sorry, what the fuck are you talking of?”, Martín was to confused to scream: “You are not going to Buenos Aires, not without me. We agreed on this. Why is nobody talking with me?”<br/>“Bring him home.”, Sergio smiled sadly: “Yes, that’s a good idea. He would have liked it.”<br/>“I am sitting here! I’m here! Stop this stupid bullshit. You don’t have to bring me home; I will go by myself, thank you very much.”<br/>Stockholm reached out to Helsinki and put his hand on his arm comfortingly:<br/>“I know it’s hard, dealing with such things. But remember: You are carrying them with you the entire time. Even if their bodies are gone, they’re still with you.”<br/>“Maybe you visit their cities once.”, Lisbon suggested: “I heard, that Kenya is a beautiful country.”<br/>“Yeah.” Marseille added: “And Palermo is definitely worth more than one journey.”<br/>Wait. <br/>Their bodies are gone and you should visit their cities? <br/>What should this mean?<br/>Martín stared at Helsinki. A part of him still expected, that they all would just start laughing, to reveal the joke. But nobody laughed.<br/>“I think, you saw enough.”<br/>Martín turned around and looked up. Andrés was standing behind him, the hands lying on Martín’s shoulders, as he wanted to relax him. Nobody took notice of him. <br/>“You are… not real.”, Martín muttered.<br/>“I’m as real as you are.”<br/>“You are as real as we are.”, Nairobi appeared at Andrés side.<br/>“No.”, the Argentine heard himself talking like he was a stranger: “You are dead. Both of you are dead. I am alive. This is not real. This is an illusion.”<br/>“Oh, Martín, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.”, Andrés smiled: “This is very real. And the illusions… There not where you expect them to be.”<br/>And then the world went upside down. Andrés snapped his fingers and on the same second, the world stopped. All the gang members at the table, the wind, the birds, everything froze. Shivers ran down Martín’s spine, gave him goose bumps all over his body. His shoulders tensed under Andrés gentle touch. <br/>“Don’t get scared.”, Nairobi said: “I know, this is a shock but you have to stay calm and listen to us.”<br/>“You are dead.”, Andrés explained: “You were dead in the moment, you closed your eyes after the explosion.”<br/>“But… But, I’m not dead. These people, Sergio, Helsinki, all our friends, they’re not dead.”<br/>“No, they’re not. Thanks to you in big parts.”<br/>“But, why am I seeing them? Helsinki carried me down here from the bed. Sergio spoke with me.”<br/>“Yes, but they are both not real.”, Andrés snapped again and all other people, except Nairobi and Martín disappeared. He sat down at Stockholm’s chair and turned to the Argentine: “How long were you unconscious?”<br/>“Two weeks.”<br/>“Five heartbeats. And you didn’t wake up. After five heartbeats, your heart stopped pumping and you died. The things you are seeing here, in this yard, even this yard isn’t real. It’s a protection mechanism of your brain to process all this and to make it easier to let go.”, Andrés leaned back.<br/>“Let go?”, Martín asked: “Why should I let anything go, if I am already dead?”<br/>“Because this is not the afterlife.”, Nairobi explained: “You have to come with us. We are here to guide you.”<br/>Nairobi was right: This was a shock. Martín’s head was complete blank. He didn’t know what to think anymore. His whole perception of reality had changed in seconds. If what Andrés had told him was the truth. <br/>It was his first instinct to believe him, but he had his experiences with hallucinations and drugs. He was used to seemingly realistic and reasonable things, that were complete bullshit. Especially if Andrés appeared in them.<br/>“I know what you think right now: I am drugged and by brain shows me some weird stuff. Let me tell you, the explanation is not that easy. If you want proof, check your pulse.”, Andrés leaned back and crossed his arms. <br/>“I breathe, so my head has to work. Why should I check my pulse?”<br/>“Just do it. It doesn’t cost you anything, right?”<br/>Martín hesitated, but Nairobi gave him an encouraging smile. So, he put two fingers on his throat, directly at his aorta. <br/>Normally he felt the steady, calm heartbeat. Now he felt nothing. <br/>Panicking, he pressed his entire hand against his chest, where his heartbeat should be. And there was nothing – complete silence.<br/>“Your heart stopped working. You are breathing just out of habit. Martín, my dearest friend, you are dead.”<br/>No. He was not dead. He collapsed in the yard, due to the high level of morphine in his blood. He was still lying unconsciously in a tunnel under the Bank of Spain, waiting for the police to get him. He was not dead.<br/>“Martín.”, Andrés took his hands and gently forced him to look at him: “I know, it sounds impossible. And you don’t have to believe me yet. You just have to follow us.”<br/>“Where?”<br/>“Just up the staircase.”, Nairobi answered: “Only a few steps.”<br/>What could happen? This was not real, so nothing what he did mattered. This one was a very pleasant illusion, so why not play along a little bit longer? Before, he had overreacted a bit, because of his confusion and everything. He decided to like it and finally relaxed. There was only one problem:<br/>“I’m not really in the physical condition to… well, to do anything. How should I walk? Or are you both carrying me like a sack of flour?”<br/>“No, that would be the opposite of style and you know my motto has always been “whatever you do, do it with style”. You are going to walk, just like the adult you are.”, Andrés got up and looked at him expectantly.<br/>Martín hesitated, thinking about the things Helsinki told him about his condition, but if this wasn’t real, why should his injury be? So he pulled out the needle from his arm, leaned on the table and got up, still a bit stumbling but quite well for the first try. <br/>“Ready to go?”, Nairobi asked: “Everything okay?”<br/>“Yeah, I think so. When will my eye get better? I still don’t see anything on the left side.”  <br/>Andrés and Nairobi exchanged a meaningful glance. Then Andrés slowly said:<br/>“It won’t. Senses are… more complicated than the rest. They are part of your mind; they influence your perception of reality. If they’re gone, they’re gone. Sorry.”<br/>Martín wasn’t bothered. Maybe it was because he accepted that this was not real. Maybe it was because of all the “too much” that happened until now. Actually, he found it pretty funny, that a product of his own fantasy could deny him access to parts of his normal abilities. He just nodded.<br/>Andrés raised eyebrow showed his surprise, about this strangely calm reaction, but he didn’t say anything:<br/>“Well, we have no more time to lose. Let’s go.”<br/>He took Martín’s hand (what didn’t bother him at all, because nothing did anymore. He just accepted it as another idea coming from his confused brain) and paced to the staircase. Nairobi looked at the yard, then she turned around and followed the men. <br/>Martín felt a strange thing growing inside him. A thing he couldn’t describe, but it felt important. It felt light, like he was losing weight with every step towards the stairs. He wanted to know, what this thing was. <br/>The steps were steep and worn-out by centuries of use, but until now Martín had become so light that he nearly floated a few centimetres above the old stone. Not really of course, but who cared? Martín definitely didn’t.<br/>He enjoyed the feeling the floating and the warm of Andrés’ hand gave him. Only a peripheric part of his brain recognised, that Andrés too didn’t have a pulse. A little, stupid laugh escaped his lips.<br/>The Spaniard fastened the grip on his hand. Martín looked up to him in surprise, like a child:<br/>“What’s the matter?”<br/>“The storm is rough. I don’t want to lose you. Not again.”<br/>“What? What fucking storm?”<br/>“Don’t you feel the wind?”, Nairobi appeared next to him.<br/>He did. The soft breeze had turned into heavy blasts, that pulled at their clothing, like it wanted to rip it off. <br/>“It’s coming.”, Andrés grinned at him boyishly. The sunlight beamed directly on his sharp features and highlighted the high cheekbones. In this moment he was the young, beautiful man again, Martín had met in Buenos Aires all those years ago.  <br/>In this moment he knew what the thing was.<br/>The wind caught them, like to brown leaves in autumn, lifted them from the ground and carried them higher and higher towards the sky. </p><p>And after a heartbeat there was steady ground under his feet. Only for a split-second, because he lost his balance almost immediately. Andrés caught him with both arms and stopped his fall. Martín made a strange, choked noise, that sounded a bit like a sob or a gasp.<br/>“Everything okay?”, Andrés tried to straighten him up, but Martín went completely limp in his arms.<br/>No, nothing was okay. Reality had hit him with so much force, that it left him completely helpless. <br/>This was real. Everything. Andrés was real, Nairobi was real. Everything Andrés had told him was true. And his missing pulse was real too. <br/>He was dead.<br/>“Martín, I know, it’s much to process. But I have to show you something.”<br/>The Argentine was still mentally paralysed, but he was so used to follow Andrés’ wishes, that he managed to stand on his own feet. <br/>“Good, very good. So, look around. Feels familiar?”<br/>Martín did as he was told. They were standing in the yard of the monastery. It was close to dusk; the sky was burning in all shades from glowing gold to velvety night blue. A warm summer breeze ran through the small orange trees and spread the smell of the white blossoms. He heard the familiar sound of monks singing in the distance. <br/>“We’re home.”, Andrés smiled: “Finally.”<br/>“Home.”, Martín repeated: “This is home.”<br/>“If you want. You are free to go where ever you want. This world is like The Other, only a bit nicer. If you want to leave me, you leave.”<br/>“I… leave… you.”, it sounded absurd. Him leaving Andrés. That would be the complete reversal of the power differences between them he was used to. <br/>“I won’t.”, the Spaniard continued: “I did it once, and this was one time too much. I won’t do it again. If you want me, I’m here.”<br/>And this was it. The “Click”. Andrés was here. With him. He was not dreaming:<br/>“Andrés?”<br/>His friend threw a smile at him:<br/>“And? Leave or remain?”<br/>“I… I…”<br/>He stopped smiling, his glance turned sad and a bit hurt:<br/>“I understand. I shouldn’t have expected you to stay with me after everything I’ve done. I apologize for my deeds, but I won’t stop you. You find your stuff in your old room. And some money, papers and a ticket to Buenos Aires too. If you want, I drive you to the airport.”<br/>“Please, Andrés, you don’t…”<br/>“Don’t apologize. I deserve this, and I know it. I already had you and I casted you out, because of fear and insecurity and my stupid pride. I’m not in the positon to demand anything from you. I’m…”<br/>“Andrés.”<br/>“Yes?”<br/>“Shut up.”<br/>Martín grabbed his friend by the collar of his coat und pulled him into a passionate, loving kiss. He felt Andrés tensing in surprise, but he didn’t even think about stopping. This wasn’t like their first kiss. Back then Martín had been shy. He had hesitated and had been glad, that Andrés took the lead. Not now.<br/>This was his kiss, it belonged to him and only to him. He took what he wanted. And what he wanted was more. He wanted to consume Andrés in his entirety, touch him, smell him, taste him, hear him gasping and his heavy breath. <br/>But Andrés was not the kind of guy, who let himself be guided by someone else. Instead he pushed Martín back until his back hit the stonewall, but he didn’t care as long as Andrés was kissing him. <br/>“Martín.”, Andrés stopped but didn’t back off a little bit, so their faces were still only millimetres apart. <br/>“Don’t talk, just kiss me.”<br/>“No, Martín, this is important.”, he finally stepped back a bit, but not so much that they would lose contact or that his hands would leave their places: “I just want you to know one thing: You are the most important thing in my life. You are my best friend, my soulmate. Martín, I love you.”<br/>Martín smiled, like he never did before. Bright, honest, happy, optimistic, trustful. He pulled the Spaniard into a warm hug:<br/>“Don’t cheat. That’s my line.”</p>
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